


Between Sun and Sea

by Asheva



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Bad Flirting, Empath, F/M, Healing, Icarus Mythos, Serious Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-20 03:40:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14252247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asheva/pseuds/Asheva
Summary: The problem with swimming in tributaries of the human mind was it was easy to drown. He was drunk of the frustration of failure, breathing in the waters of madness, not even aware he was injured...Highly-explosive missiles in a confined spacereallywasn't the best of ideas. Papillon is badly injured by his own lair's elimination program and Nathalie reluctantly comes to the rescue...as usual. A post-“Robostus” what-if.





	1. Crosswords and Chiffon

**Author's Note:**

> Chiefly inspired by wearealsoboats's Icarus poetry [(here)](http://wearealsoboats.tumblr.com/post/51761202038). In the original mythos, Daedalus warned Icarus to fly neither too low to the sea (complacency) nor too close to the sun (hubris). This tale of tragedy seemed fitting for Hawk Moth/Le Papillon. 
> 
> Also inspired by the beautifully written Gabriel/Nathalie works by authors mirawohoo [(A witch's familiar)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5575858/chapters/12852136) and poppicock [(Psyche)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8099371/chapters/18560707).
> 
> Sorry for shifts in tense and for any aberrant Aussie-isms. The story kinda ignores the fact that Ladybug’s “Miraculous Ladybug” would repair any damage. Creative license, so just roll with it for a bit.

_**ATTENTION — 21ème arr. — Agreste Mansion — IDS online.** _

The chaos to come started with a small beep on her pager. So insignificant in a city terrorised by corrupted butterflies on a weekly basis that Nathalie Sancoeur ignored it. If there were a real emergency, M. Agreste would ring her mobile directly. 

Instead, the assistant brushed off stray pastry flakes before returning to her crossword. Although it was almost 13h00, she had just sat down to a belated breakfast. All the staff had been incredibly busy organising the Gabriel Spring and Summer lines for Fashion Week. Last season, Gabriel had released a bold new direction for the brand: delicate chiffon capes, enveloping yet light like gossamer wings. Deadly, dangerous, but beautiful. This year was similar but included a line of jewellery with an oriental vibe. A rival designer had derisively called the concept “a frivolous fantasy”. But it was slowly becoming a classic Gabriel design. The local couture salons couldn’t get enough. 

Nathalie relaxed her shoulders, twisting the cap on her pen nib. The cryptic crossword was still niggling her, the blank space a glaring mistake on an otherwise neatly filled-in grid. She appreciated the mental break from her duties. There was something soothing about the black and white squares with a definite, decryptable answer. She’d moved quickly from Force 1 to Force 4 puzzles, with the little time she had for personal projects, even graduating to foreign language crosswords through tablet. So, 24 across: 'Lily a soak, one on reflection beyond ruin'. Honestly, who wrote these clues?

Her pager emitted another series of beeps. Nathalie placed the pen down, tilting the pager up to check the message. Perhaps it would reveal the crossword answer in an electronic epiphany. 

_**CRITICAL RESPONSE REQUIRED — East Wing, Floor 4 — Elimination Program ACTIVE.** _

Now _that_ drew her attention. The elimination program was an absolute last resort. M. Agreste had insisted on the best anti-personnel devices he could smuggle into the country. He had never given her the full details, but Nathalie strongly hoped they were non-lethal. A nerve gas designed to incapacitate — but not kill — any intruder, or similar. Even the legalities of that were staggering. And the East Wing, Floor 4 was. . .well, she hesitated to call it a lair, purely because the whole supervillain thing was clichéd enough as it were. And definitely beyond her pay scale. 

Perhaps she could disable the anti-intrusion system from M. Agreste’s personal console. Yet, this would require his handprint. And Nathalie knew her employer was currently engaged in an 'inspiration session': their private code for his activities as a supervillain. There was no choice but to manually override the system in person. Sadly, the lair was only accessible through M. Agreste’s _atelier_. Down through the second floor, then up through third to reach the fourth floor, where a previous Agreste had converted the disused attic into a spacious, if sterile observatory. Apparently, this route capitalised on existing service passageways. So it was not only unnecessarily overdramatic, but also hideously inefficient.

Sighing, Nathalie put down the crossword and disposed of the remaining pastry in a wastebin on her way to the _atelier_. Shame, almond were her favourite. 

  
***  


Minutes later, she strode along the labyrinthine metal walkway that twisted through the lower level like veins. Everything was ridden with rust, except where the passage of many hands had polished the metal to a sheen. Each step was met with a disturbingly creaking clang. Many parts of this level were falling into disrepair, but her employer refused to get them fixed. Perhaps he just liked the current aesthetic. Or, more likely, he was paranoid about certain activities being revealed. She had once pointed out they could just akumatize the workers, but Gabriel had scoffed, saying that would be a gross misuse of such an ancient power. As if terrorising teenagers for magic jewellery wasn’t. 

She eventually reached the observatory-cum-lair via one last elevator. Like Theseus pitted against the proverbial Minotaur, Nathalie came face-to-face with an absolute disaster. The observatory dome was closed, but the blinking red emergency lights were active, casting a bloody light over the wreckage. The air was dangerously thin and… _god_ , it was hot. Nathalie shrugged off her jacket, using it to cover her mouth and nose. Pure white butterflies laid crushed and twitching, littered around like discarded wrappers. In the far corner, a lacquered chair and side table were burning, along with what remained of a bolt of chiffon. The expensive salmon silk chiffon imported exclusively from Yunnan earlier that week. And were those missile casings on the floor? 

There, amid the carnage, a hunched figure with arms outstretched. _Papillon_. The villain issued a bitter, rasping laugh, soon devolving into a silent shaking with bared teeth. He was drunk on the frustration of his own failure, breathing in the waters of madness, not even aware he was injured. A large swathe of burnt skin stretched across his back. It wasn't a pleasant sight.

“Sir!“ Nathalie called out, slowly picking her way across the observatory to him. There was no movement from Papillon, no velvet denoucement that twisted words into silk as easily as his civilan identity made designs. He knelt on the floor, rocking silently as she approached. Closer up, she could see his suit was sluggishly repairing itself and the flesh underneath. Barely.

Still, this was worse than she thought; the villan was completely insensate to his surrounds. Gabriel had once explained the purple stone broach he wore — the Miraculous — gave him the power of empathy and the ability to create champions. Emotions were source of his strength, especially strong ones. The problem with swimming in tributaries of the human mind was it was easy to drown. Tribulation and triumph, frustration and failure; _these_ became like air to a man barely able to process his own wife's disappearance. It was too much. M. Agreste carried these sensitivities with him for the rest of the day after transforming. Oh, he could hide most of it behind clenched hands and narrowed eyes, but he’d often have outbursts at the slightest upset. So vexing for a man firmly rooted in self-control.

In this state, it would be hard to catch his attention with words. Carefully, she opened her mind. It was not difficult to project her weak emotions: heartless in name, but still human. A very overworked human. She thought of all the paperwork, the clean-up, the _chiffon_ , the idiot man sitting in front of her.

Upon sensing her, Papillon whipped his head around, steely eyes focusing then narrowing. “Mlle. Sancoeur,” he said slowly, dropping his arms to his sides. The shaking hadn’t ceased, but it had lessened.

“Sir,” Nathalie said, stepping closer towards him. “I think it’s time to leave.” She started coughing as the smoke stung her throat and eyes. The air was worse here. Her head spun as the smoke swirled around them.

“I was close thi…” Papillon began. A shrill beeping interrupted what was undoubtedly the start of a rambling monologue. Through the smoky haze, Nathalie saw the purple suit was no longer regenerating. Underneath, the large wound had become puckered and inflamed. The remaining butterflies around her were rapidly disintegrating into nothingness.

“I really must insist. You require medical attention,” she said firmly, inching closer still. They needed to get out of here, _fast_. Bribing a doctor would be challenging enough, but explaining how fashion king Gabriel Agreste perished in his own home from illegal missiles would be near impossible.

“As you wish,” Papillon said, each word paining him more than the last. He had started to feel the effects of the carnage around him. Nathalie extended a hand to the villain. He gave her a sharp smile, far too wide to be reassuring, before snatching her arm and drawing her closer. Before she had time to wrest free, the lair vanished in a whirl of white wings. For a brief and — surprisingly for a woman moved by little — terrifying moment, they were suspended in a void. She was falling into a black ocean with no distinguishable horizon. Nothingness pressed on all sides, save where she was tucked against another solid, breathing form. 

Their feet struck solid ground, or rather solid parquetry. The villain released his hold as his knees buckled. That awful, bitter laugh disappeared, replaced by a racking cough. Papillon inhaled sharply then pitched forward in a dead faint, sending a puff of butterflies into the surrounding room. The beeping grew more insistent before terminating in an ear-splitting screech. In a burst of purple light, Papillon detransformed back into Gabriel Agreste. Then, an eerie silence. No beeping, no emergency alarms, no mocking laugh. Nathalie was alone, in an unknown apartment, with her supervillain boss face-down on the floor.

Just another day at the office.


	2. For Want of a Glass

Adrenaline finally kicking in, Nathalie went into immediate damage control. She carefully manoeuvred Gabriel onto his left side, placing two fingers to his neck. He was cold to the touch, chilled and sweating, but had a strong pulse. His civilian clothes, unlike Papillon’s suit, were pristine and crisp. Somehow untouched by the storm of fire. The assistant clicked her tongue as she saw a spreading wetness beneath the vest. 

She disrobed him efficiently: first unbuttoning the vest and shirt below, then moving to the outer coat. This was no time for squeamish sensibility. As she gently rolled the coat off his arms, her employer elicited a soft groan. Not quite fully unconscious then. A good sign, if any. Finally, she loosened the tie. Or at least attempted to, until she realised it was a clip-on. She’d suspected it wasn’t real, but would never have guessed the fashion mogul would wear something so tacky. Nathalie pressed her lips tightly, trying her hardest to avoid snickering. The resultant squawk was less refined that she’d care to admit, bordering on a mild panic. The assistant sat back on her haunches, forcing air through her nose until the icy waves up her spine subsided. Panic would serve no one at this critical juncture.

Continuing to peel back the layers, she inspected the wounds. The nasty half-healed burn covering his right side was pinkish, but cracked and weeping fluid. It was warm to the touch, unlike the clammy flesh surrounding it. Was that good or bad? This wasn’t her area of expertise. With his pale skin revealed and light blond hair dishevelled across his face, Gabriel appeared almost translucent. He was drowning in the pale autumn light flooding through the solitary window. It was by no means a healthy appearance. 

Hesitantly, she touched the purple stone at her employer’s throat. Inactive. But where was the creature that inhabited it? Nathalie looked once more around the _chambre de bonne_. To her right, the ceiling sloped down to a narrow window overlooking the street. It was a cramped space, but sparsely decorated as not to appear cluttered. There was chaise lounge against the wall that also served as a makeshift bed. A tiny kitchenette with sink and gas stove sat behind her, the shower and other facilities tucked into the far corner. The apartment also boasted a small table with a single chair, littered with yellowing pages from a sketch pad. Everything had a fine coating of dust, save where they had arrived and where Gabriel currently lay. Ducking down, she spotted a small purple form slumped near the radiator on the far wall. 

The creature — no, kwami was the correct term — stirred, opening its wide eyes and fixing them on her. “I…n-need to re-recharge,” it said, looking over at its insensate wielder, "Gabr…Master s-should have something.” Nathalie rummaged in Gabriel’s cream jacket, before finding a battered tin of anise bonbons. Unwrapping one, she offered it to the purple kwami. Despite not having a sweet tooth, the assistant took one for herself. Breakfast and lunch, after all, had been non-existent. The kwami hummed appreciatively, flying drunkenly around her head while nibbling on the treat. 

Curiosity piqued, she brushed over the purple stone again, which had taken on a lighter tone. Less dull, somehow. “Y-you could take it, mistress,” the kwami whispered, mouth sticky with bonbon but voice stronger, more resolved, “return the Butterfly Miraculous to the Great Guardian.”

“I…” Nathalie pondered that conundrum for a moment. She really could end things. Without the miracle stone, Gabriel would be unable to send akumas. Peace would settle upon Paris once more. At least, temporarily. Scheduling meetings and fashion shoots would become ordinary feats, no longer interrupted by impromptu 'inspiration sessions' or the aftereffects of an akuma. Stomach growling, she imagined all the relaxed breakfasts and lunches she could indulge in. 

But, if there was anything Nathalie prided herself on, it was her loyalty to her employer. More than that, she enjoyed the unique challenge of being executive assistant to both M. Agreste and Le Papillon. Despite the added stress, she loved juggling different competing interests. Bringing together disparate resources to create something beautifully workable. Yes, even the requisite misdirection and outright lies. That exercised her mind like no crossword could. Besides, stealing the stone would put her in a dangerous position. Gabriel Agreste was powerful, both as a supervillain and business executive. It would be unwise to cross him.

Ignoring the creature’s plea, Nathalie removed her hand from the stone. It would never be hers to take, willing or otherwise. “How can I help him?” She asked finally, before adding a sympathetic “Please?” Papillon must have had a plan when teleporting them to this dingy apartment. 

The purple kwami sighed, drooping its’ wings by its side. “He must transform again. I cannot heal as Creation does, but it will be enough. Then he must rest.” Nodding, Nathalie lifted Gabriel’s hand to curl his fingers around the Miraculous.

“M. Agreste,” she addressed him softly, “I need you to wake up.” Her employer responded with a low grumble, barely audible, and the slight tightening of his hand below hers. Not quite conscious enough to transform. She saw only one option left, not unattractive, just unorthodox. Nathalie sucked in a deep breath, then slapped him across the face. “Gabriel!” She said sternly, conjuring remembered righteousness of warm green eyes and old memories. Sadly, she was a poor copy. “Wake up!”

This provoked an immediate response. His eyes flashed open: shifting, but alert. “W-what, Nathalie?” Gabriel said as he tried to rise on his elbows, before groaning as his muscles bunched beneath the burn. 

“You must transform, sir,” she replied, squeezing her hand around his. 

“Y-yes, that would be prudent…” He faded off, slumping back against the parquetry. 

“Concentrate!” She slapped him again, just enough to bring him back to wakefulness. Gabriel summoned enough energy to glare at her. Weakly, he crossed his arms over his chest, before splaying them wide. 

“Nooroo, transform me.” His voice was breathy, panting punctuating the words. The kwami swirled into the stone, turning it into a broach framed by four delicate wings. White butterflies engulfed Gabriel’s prone form in a purple blaze. Something long materialised in his outstretched hand. Yet, with no working fingers to clasp it, the cane rolled out of his grasp, clattering along dusty parquetry. As soon as he was transformed, Papillon’s breathing settled into a less frantic rhythm. There was a slight sucking in of breath, followed by a long sigh. 

“Ah,” the villain exhaled, “that was foolish of me.” He used the chaise frame to pull himself into a seated position. Another hand reached out for the cane. Nathalie sat down, tucking knees to her chest then crossing her arms on them. She fixed the villain with a particularly cold stare. The one she reserved for incompetent interns or, occasionally, unruly teenaged wards.

“Care to tell me why the elimination program activated?” She addressed him casually. They had both agreed she could be less formal with his alter-ego, to avoid suspicion if they were ever caught together. Nathalie didn’t find it difficult to take liberties; it was almost as if the two identities were different men altogether. That was the magic of the miracle stone, she figured. It was, supposedly, inhabited by the kwami of Change after all. Papillon’s silver mask accentuated sharp angles, giving the impression of a stronger jawline. It produced a contouring effect better than that of professional models M. Agreste employed. The villain’s eyes were barely blue anymore, swallowed by a fathomless violet tinge. There was also a shine to them that conveyed an inner fire rarely displayed by her employer. Again, perhaps that was the lazy smile as he noticed her appraising him.

“The missiles were necessary, Mlle. Sancoeur,” he said, quirking his mouth. “I…” Even his voice was somehow different. Yet, if she listened to the underlying intonation — the pure sound — she could recognise the same unctuous tone. 

“And I thought we had agreed on non-lethal methods of defence.” She retorts, “I don’t even want to know how you managed to install them without me noticing.” He chuckled darkly. 

“As gifted as you are, my dear, I have certain ways.” She resisted the temptation to roll her eyes. Probably by akumatizing workers, hypocrisy be damned. It really was the most efficient solution. Papillon continued, waving a hand lazily in the air. “Besides, a Miraculous provides unrivalled protection against injury. As you have no doubt seen today. The wielders are imbued with unthinkable power, especially the chosen of Creation and Destruction. A few missiles are unlikely to harm Ladybug and Chat Noir.”

“They are still _children_ ,” She snapped, before pinching the bridge of her nose. Her voice softened before she said, “Would you put your own son in that position?” 

Papillon pressed his lips together before speaking in dark tone reminiscent of M. Agreste mid-rage. “I am doing this for him. And for _her_. Do not forget that.” His hand tightened on the cane with creaking of leather. Nathalie prepared a retort, then thought twice of it. She dropped the subject without argument, choosing to rest her chin on her arms. It really had been a long day. 

“Indignation suits you,” Papillon said finally, breaking the long silence. He twirled his cane absently. In response, the butterflies on the nearby furniture twitched their wings faster. 

“Please, I’m in no mood for this.”

“Ah, but I think you are,” he crooned, as a butterfly playfully lands on his fingers. “If only you would surrender it. Bring your frustration to fruition, let it fuel you. We could make a great team.”

“I believe that’s outside my job description, sir.” Nathalie took another deep breath as she stood up stiffly, brushing down her jumper. She moved into the kitchen area and busied her herself with looking at its details. This was easier than tackling the bubbling anger beneath her skin. The mosaicked splashback was by no means calming: a garish clash of green and blue tiles forming what she could only guess was…some kind of bird? It was hard to tell, crooked and sloppily installed as they were. Slowly, the assistant traced the large blobs that formed its wings, counting each tile as she passed over it. A calmer mindset descended as she reached the bottom of the mosaic. 

“My first attempts at kitchen refurbishment,” Papillon calls out behind her. “A peacock. You could say I had a unique inspiration.”

“Almost miraculous?” She countered the obvious line of thought, not giving him the satisfaction of a bad in-joke. 

“Naturally,” he chuckled, “as all truly great design is.” 

In a stroke of luck, Nathalie discovered an old wine bottle near the stove. A red _vin de soif_ , a few years past optimum, but untouched. These types were best consumed chilled, but needs must. She rummaged around for a minute or so looking of a corkscrew and a glass, but found neither. Giving up, the assistant uncorked the bottle with a knife, swirled it appreciatively, and then took a long sip — more of a gulp, really. Not bad. 

“May I trouble you for a…glass of wine?” Papillon asks politely, amusement displayed in a toothy grin. He had moved from half-sprawled on the floor to a more dignified cross-legged position on the chaise. His gloved fingers tapped to an unknown beat along his cane as he spoke. “There should be glassware in…” he paused, rubbing his chin, “the small cupboard above the sink.” A little late for that crucial piece of information, Nathalie reflected. 

“Water only,” she instructed primly. Alcohol was too strong a pick-me-up for someone half-conscious only a few minutes ago. She filled tap water into the cleanest cup she could find — they were exactly where the villain said — then offered it to him. 

“That is the far less _enjoyable_ option,” he lamented, taking it from her with a very deliberate brush of his fingers, maintaining eye contact all the while. While her employer had always been strictly professional with her, his alter-ego was a different matter. Just as Gabriel appreciated her emotional control, Papillon delighted in its undoing. A sharp, crooked smile confirmed her suspicions. 

Well, she wouldn’t entertain his actions with a response. Although, she was glad her sweater covered the flush creeping up her neck. “You seem to have recovered adequately,” Nathalie said as neutrally as possible. She set the bottle of wine down of the table, then checked her pager time: 14h08. Nearly a whole hour wasted. “Perhaps, it is time to return. You are due to supervise a 15h00 fitting for the new line of capes.”

“Very well,” Papillon proffered his hand in a gentlemanly fashion. This time, she shifted her weight at the last minute, throwing the villain off balance for a moment. The butterflies flocked around them and soon the small apartment disappeared. She was ready for the void this time. Falling, in many respects, was just like flying. 

  
***  


A whole week passed since the incident. Another week of missed breakfasts, confounding word puzzles, and a schedule so cramped it was a miracle she got anything done. Everything returned to normal. There had been another akuma attack just that morning. Very strategically positioned between two scheduled meetings and, mercifully, lunch. The latter had been quiet affair, with just Adrien, M. Agreste, and her in attendance. No matter how small the occasion, the boy was delighted at the unusual show of attention from his father. Her employer had politely asked how Adrien’s classes were faring and even spent time admiring his son’s choice of jewellery. 

After lunch, Nathalie returned to her desk, strangely sated and relaxed. As she sat down to finish a press release, she found someone had placed last week’s crossword under her keyboard. It certainly hadn’t been there before she’d left. Annoyingly, that same someone had filled the final missing word in elegant cursive script: _MARIPOSA_. She didn’t recognise the handwriting. M. Agreste preferred to write most documents in neat, controlled print: a script far less inclined to be misinterpreted by incompetent underlings. And Adrien still used a childish scribble with overenthusiastic loops. 

“Are you well, Nathalie?” M. Agreste asked mildly as he entered the _atelier_ , stopping at her desk. His brow was slightly raised, mouth revealing little. His hands were firmly clasped in their customary place behind his back. 

“Yes, sir,” she replies, tucking the crossword back under the keyboard hurriedly. “A momentary distraction.”

“Very good,” her employer said, nodding curtly. His gaze slid down to the keyboard. “Mme. Durand requires those signed forms indicating approval for the new 'Adrien, The Fragrance' advertising campaign, post-haste.”

“Of course, sir.” A form was an easy task after recent events. Nathalie had already signed the forms in triplicate and sent them via email. As soon as she received a response as receipt of delivery, she would file that and the original form on the Agreste cloud storage, on an external hard-drive, and on her computer terminal. Backups were a must in this position. 

As M. Agreste walked past towards his personal console, a flash of movement caught her eyes. He was twiddling a pen in his fingers behind his back, tapping it slightly. 

That bastard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
